


Let Me Be Brave

by pristineungift



Series: The Portamis Collection [5]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Falling In Love, Friendship/Love, Gen, Hope, Internal Conflict, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Pining Aramis, Pining Porthos, Psychological Drama, Realization, Romance, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-03
Updated: 2014-03-03
Packaged: 2018-01-14 09:55:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1262005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pristineungift/pseuds/pristineungift
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Aramis found that in the wake of all that had happened, he needed to be alone. There were thoughts that weighed heavy on his mind, thoughts that had been lying in wait in the shadowy corners of his psyche that his talks with Agnes had pulled howling into the light.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>  <i>One Portamis drabble for every episode</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Me Be Brave

**Author's Note:**

> I just have a lot of feelings.

It was plain, after seeing Agnes and baby Henry off on a ship bound for Spain, that Porthos wanted to spend the evening with Aramis.

Part of Aramis greeted this with joy and no small amount of relief, for he had been worried, in the wake of Charon’s death, that their brotherhood would be irreparably altered. When Captain Treville had sent Aramis out with d’Artagnan and kept Porthos and Athos close to guard the king, Aramis had hoped that the time apart would serve to let bruised feelings heal and absence make the heart grow fonder.

And yet Aramis found that in the wake of all that had happened since discovering the true bloodline of baby Henry, he needed to be alone. There were thoughts that weighed heavy on his mind, thoughts that had been lying in wait in the shadowy corners of his psyche that his talks with Agnes had pulled howling into the light.

So Aramis went with the others to the usual tavern, The Fox, but had only two drinks before making his excuses. Porthos gave him a questioning look when he stood, and d’Artagnan glanced between them like a child who suspected discord among his family, but Aramis set them both at ease with a smile and a tilt of his hat. Athos, still sober for once, perhaps because of Aramis’ earlier slip about the brandy, bid him goodnight, and then Aramis was free to stroll the streets of Paris, his feet taking him unerringly past Treville’s hotel on Rue du Vieux-Colombier to the little side street where he had his apartments.

Once inside, however, he found that he could not settle. He didn’t feel like eating or bathing, and for some reason this type of contemplation didn’t seem suited to his bed. In the end, he went out the door in the back of his lodgings that led to his little shady garden, hidden from his neighbors by a tall hedge and a wall. There was a moldering stone bench, half gone to moss, that he often sat upon in the evenings he had free in the summer. He sat there now, stretching his legs out before him and tilting his head back to look at the moon.

Agnes. He had found a true friend in her, perhaps more than she knew. Her talk of her hidden life, of her relief at being able to walk open and free as a family at last, only to have her happiness stolen from her by people afraid of what they didn’t understand… It struck a chord within Aramis, brought fears to light that he had not named, not even to himself.

Agnes had asked him if he’d ever loved again, since his failed engagement at the tender age of sixteen, and he had not answered her. Perhaps he should have. She, of all people, might have understood.

But how could he take the risk? Agnes’ husband Philippe had been deformed, thought a demon by ignorant country folk, but there were many who would have decried that conclusion as the rubbish it was. And yet if Aramis spoke openly of his feelings for Marsac and for… There were few who would not consider him damned.

This was why he’d left the church.

He’d never admitted to his desire for Marsac. Not while it still mattered. Not when something might have come from it. It wasn’t until his friend was well and truly gone, and his own hand that had done it, that he stopped willfully blinding himself to all that they had and were. And now, with Porthos…

It was all so much more, all so much greater. It was what he had been searching for among his many conquests all this time.

It was love.

Just thinking the word made Aramis’ breathing hitch, his heart pounding and hands tingling as if he’d been taken by battle fever. The familiar floating sensation of calm, that the world was not quite real, that time was passing slowly came over him, and he put his hand on his chest, his fingers catching on the cross given to him by Queen Anne.

He would not – could not – say it aloud. If he let the words pass his lips they would gain form and color and he would be unable to forget them or alter them, never be able to stuff them back inside. But he could think them.

_I love Porthos._

He took a deep breath, giving the sentiment time to sink down, to touch the bottom of his soul. It did not take as long as he thought it would, but then he’d always known he loved Porthos. It was the type of love that was the revelation.

Revelation.

Philippe’s revelation of himself to those around him had resulted in a brutal death. Aramis had been able to see it reflected there, in Agnes’ eyes. Philippe would have struggled, not to save himself, but to protect his wife and child. Deformed, he might not have been able to handle a sword well, or wrestle, but he would have tried. And for that offense, for the crime of merely being alive and himself, he’d had his bones broken and his flesh pulped while his wife looked on.

Aramis and Agnes were two of a kind. They both saw past appearances, were moved by the innermost desires. Agnes truly had the heart of a lion. She was a fitting mother for a king, even one who would never have a throne. Perhaps especially for one who would never have a throne.

But could Aramis do as she had done? Could he live in darkness, knowing that if any discovered the nature of his love for Porthos that the pair of them would be cast in the same roles as Philippe and Agnes, new players for an old scene? Would Aramis be able to live on if his love was the very thing that condemned Porthos to an ignominious death?

He was known for his discretion, but discretion was not absolute secrecy. Would not such a constrained life bring more misery than joy?

And what of Porthos? Thinking on all they had been and continued to be to each other made Aramis think that perhaps his regard was returned. And Porthos had grown up in the Court of Miracles, where there were establishments that catered to all sorts of tastes. It was possible that even if he did not wish to take Aramis to bed, that he would not revile Aramis for the mere suggestion. After all, he had said nothing when Aramis told him of Marsac, had shown no disgust.

And yet, Aramis could not forget the sorrow in Agnes’ face when she spoke of Philippe. Though… Sorrow was not the only thing there. There existed in her an unquenchable light. Sun, moon, and stars that nourished the garden of her spirit. That holy fire was the love that she still carried with her, a love that could not be stopped by death. A love that even God could not sunder.

Aramis had always aspired to such a love. And now he had found one. He needed only to reach out and grasp it. He would be risking all, risking as much or more than Agnes had, risking his very life, but if he could hold that warmth inside himself, be lit from within, even for one moment, was that not worth dying for? At least as his final breath left him he would know that he had truly lived.

Wrapping his fingers more securely around the cross given to him by the queen, Aramis raised it to his lips and made a wish.

 _Let me be brave_ , he thought. _Let me be brave like Agnes._


End file.
